Page 87 of Killer on the First Page
“What dies with him?” Miranda’s voice grew quiet. “Oh my god, you know. You know the ending of his final novel.”
But how? Then it hit her: John D. Ross’s handwritten note on the page extracted from Fairfax’s throat. The answer lies at the end ofthe book that matters most.
“That strange novel, the one tucked in amongst the John D. Rosshardcovers and paperbacks. It was taken from the reading room in the confusion following Kane’s murder. You took it! You took it and you read the solution. You know how the series ends.”
A dry laugh from Wanda. “How Precious the Rain, How Sad the Sun, written by the only one of us with any real talent. John D. Ross, of course, would have none of it. He dismissed the novel as being ‘literary.’ A label of contempt in his eyes. A book without a plot? A book with artistic aspirations? Better to squash that at the onset. But the old fool must’ve known in his heart that it was good, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Must have known it mattered. Both the book and the person who wrote it.”
“Who was it?” Miranda asked. “Who was the one who squandered their talents?”
“Take your pick: I write children’s books, Penny writes cozies, Inez writes lurid erotica, Kane became a caricature of himself, trapped by his own persona, and Fairfax penned some of the world’s dumbest historical mysteries. We are all of us glorified hacks in our own way. Kane and Fairfax were working in tandem, planning to take over the franchise and share the name John D. Ross.”
“Who wanted that last page?” Ned needed to know. “And more importantly, who was willing to kill for it?”
Wanda Stobol sighed. “Could have been any one of us. Kane desperately needed the money. Fairfax DePoy wanted to become American again. He longed for that vernacular, was trapped in a flouncy world of romantic pap, was aching to return to who he really was, would’ve yearned to take over the John D. Ross name. Student becomes the master, literally. I certainly could have used the franchise, would have been happy to pass Compendium Cathy off to the next Wanda Stobol. Penny Fenland and Inez Fonio are by far the most successful of the Idaho Seven, so I don’t see them wanting to take over the Trevor Lucas series, iconic as it is.” She thought amoment. “But there was another member of our group, the only one who never made it as a writer. A young police officer. Idealistic, naive, even. Cepheus something-or-other.”
“That was him at the reception,” said Ned. “The fellow who asked Ray Valentine where he got his ideas from.”
“I thought I recognized him! Without the mustache, it was hard to tell.”
“Speaking of financial difficulties,” said Ned. “Mr. Valentine has faced multiple lawsuits over the years.”
“And won every one of them,” Wanda pointed out.
“Would still be ruinous. Legal fees and whatnot.”
“And lost sales,” Wanda conceded. “Feuds might move books, but accusations of plagiarism don’t. Tends to erode a reader’s trust—even if it’s never proven in a court of law. The accusation alone can be enough to undermine an author. Listen. Cephus What’s-his-face never wrote a damn thing worth publishing. He was a cop, not an author. Ray? He was the exact opposite: he was a wordsmith first and foremost, who reinvented himself as a police officer. That badge he keeps flashing? Community volunteer.”
“He stole Cephus’s life story,” Miranda insisted.
“He took inspiration,” Wanda shot back. “That’s what authors do. They plunder the world around them. Cephus had no cause to get so upset. His life was justsitting there, unused.”
“It was still his life,” said Miranda. “And it was still wrong, whether it was illegal or not. The law is the law—but not when it is above the law!” Then, before anyone could try to untangle that, Miranda leaned forward, leveled her gaze at Wanda Stobol. “If you really are the murderer, you’ll know exactly how it was done. Kane Hamady and Fairfax DePoy. If you are the killer, prove it. Tell me how you did it.”
“Who said I did?”
“You’re the one who asked to be arrested.”
“I asked to be put into protective custody.” Wanda Stobol closed her eyes, tilted her head back. “God. My ulcer is killing me. I think we’re done here.”
“I just have one more question,” said Miranda. “Where did you put it, the novel that matters most, the one that has the answer to everything?”
“How Precious the Rain, How Sad the Sun? I hid it in the one place no one would think to look, the one place no one would find it.” She laughed and refused to say more.
As they made their way to the front of the station, Miranda said, “Ned, she’s scared.” And then, catching sight of Holly, she rushed over. “Officer Holly! You have to protect her! Wanda Stobol is in mortal danger.”
Holly snorted at this. “Relax. She’s inside a jail cell, protected by an army of police officers. The front of the station is guarded, and the back door is locked. It’s as secure as you can get. I don’t think a killer is going to walk through walls or pass like smoke through the bars of a cell.”
But in this Officer Holly would be proven wrong. Dead wrong.
* * *
HIDING IN PLAINsight.
The mind of Miranda Abbott, let loose at full gallop, was something to behold. As they passed by the front desk of the police station, where Officer Holly had managed to keep the Portlanders at bay, Miranda suddenly spun around, crying out, “I know where she hid the novel! We must make haste!”
And before anyone could say anything, she was sailing out the front door with Ned chugging behind her, calling out, “To where?”
“The Murder Store!”
